


too many straights and not enough grease

by chocolateghost



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Fist Fights, Greasers, Injury, Knife fights, Secret Relationship, Star-crossed, Violence, but he's a soft boi for his girl, really just an excuse to write a bloody rumble, sort of an homage to The Outsiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-15 19:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16939257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateghost/pseuds/chocolateghost
Summary: "Fighting has never been something that Jon particularly enjoys, but growing up on the streets, it was a necessity. Over time, schoolyard scraps turned into back alley brawls. He became well-versed in the intricate dance. He’s good at it. He had to be to survive. He hates that about himself, but it was never his choice. He simply adapted to his surroundings. And his surroundings told him he had to fight."





	too many straights and not enough grease

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts), [uchiha_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/gifts).



> For Melissa and Madeleine, two ladies who love a good fight.

The chimes of the clocktower echo faintly throughout the empty park. Midnight. The air hangs thick like tar - hot and sticky - a storm is brewing. The clouds creeping over the moon shroud the land in inky blackness. There beside the rushing waters of the fountain, a solitary flame sparks and fades in the night, casting an eerie glow on a face that has seen far too much in too few years.

Jon unrolls the pack of Camels from his sleeve and taps out the remaining two cigarettes. One he places behind his ear, the other he bites between his teeth. The empty carton he tosses over his shoulder into the fountain, making a wish. Flicking open his Zippo, Jon lights up and breathes deep, filling his lungs with fire. Exhaling, he admires the smoke as it curls and dissolves into the darkness. Makes him feel like a dragon from one of the fairytales his mother used to read to him when he was little. But she’s dead now. And Jon isn’t a dragon. He’s a wolf.

Midnight. Two cigarettes left. Not much longer now till the rumble.

The tobacco does little to soothe his nerves. It’s always the same feeling before a fight. That kind of gnawing tension that digs down deep, sinking its hooks into his gut. Makes him hungry, but not for food. He’d taken his sacrament of a cheeseburger and Coke hours ago. This hunger can only be satisfied by blood. Joffrey’s blood. Sansa’s honor demands it.

A torn sweater and a bruised cheek was all it took to break the fragile peace between the greasers and the socs. Not so much as one fight in over three months. Not since the Drive-In Massacre. That was the night everything changed. That was the night he first met  _ her. _

Going to the same relatively small school, of course, they had known of each other. Everyone knew the juvenile delinquent head of the greasers. Everyone knew the popular brainiac prom queen. They were total and complete opposites. No one in their right mind would have ever put the two of them in the same room together, much less pick them out as sweethearts. But love doesn’t follow social norms.

On that fateful summer night, chaos erupted at the drive-in. The north side greasers and south side socs fought tooth and nail for control over unclaimed turf, leaving three dead and gruesome injuries on both sides. Jon had been right in the thick of it, his fists stained red with soc blood. In his pursuit of another fight, he’d accidentally stumbled upon Sansa trembling behind a car, scared out of her mind.

Filled with and inexplicably overwhelming need to protect her, Jon grabbed her hand and led Sansa to safety through the hole in the chain-link fence. He’d walked her home that night hand in hand, refusing to be the first to let go. The silence between them stretched on, but Jon’s mind had been overflowing thoughts. When they finally reached her front porch, he’d asked Sansa the one question that kept haunting him.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No,” she’d whispered without hesitation, eyes boring into his soul. Somehow he’d known that that would be her answer, but he still couldn’t believe his ears.

“You should be.”

Jon had definitely been afraid of her - of how she made him feel. He’d been in her presence for less than an hour, and he’d already been willing to put his life on the line for her if need be. It didn’t make sense. He was a greaser. She was a soc. The two were not supposed to mix. Fearing he might drown in her ocean eyes, he’d torn himself away to disappear back into the shadows, leaving her to stand alone under the porch light.

His hand had ached for hours afterward. The one that had held hers. At first, Jon thought that maybe he’d broken it during the fight. But no amount of flexing or clenching or ice had done a thing to cure it. It was a different kind of pain - a phantom pain - like something was missing. It hadn’t taken him long to puzzle out just exactly what that something was.

So began Jon and Sansa’s star-crossed love affair. Secret. Risky. Forbidden. Dirty. Sneaking around at late-night diners. Fumbling in the back seat of her daddy’s car. Stolen kisses under the bleachers. Teenage passion at its finest. In their little bubble, they didn’t have to worry about what their friends would think. They were happy like that. But nothing gold can stay. Joffrey Baratheon made sure of that.

It was no secret that Joffrey had always had his sights on Sansa. A soc through and through, he was the most popular boy in school. Sansa was the most popular girl. Naturally, they would make a pretty pair - king and queen. She’d rebuffed him countless times, the creep never accepting no for an answer. The most recent - and final, if Jon has any say in the matter - happened earlier this afternoon.

As Sansa later recounted, Joffrey had followed her into the third-floor stairwell where she and Jon had planned an after school rendezvous. He’d cornered her, his grubby fingers and slimy voice demanding her body and her love. Sansa had screamed out for help, but Joffrey clamped one hand over her mouth to stifle her. The other ripped her sweater open in an attempt to grope her breast. Refusing to be a victim, Sansa had sunk her teeth into his hand before he could molest her. Joffrey cursed and slapped her hard enough to send her to the floor in a sobbing heap.

That’s when Jon came in. Having heard the commotion from the hallway, he had emerged in the stairwell in time to see Joffrey standing over Sansa. The dripping wound on his hand staining her pale yellow sweater a vibrant blood red. That red was all Jon had been able to see. The next thing he knew, he was choking the life out of Joffrey with Sansa pleading for him to stop.

With that act, the peace was over. Their secret love affair was exposed. Accusations and obscenities flew back and forth. Blood was demanded from both sides. A long overdue rumble was set for half-past midnight. Greasers versus socs. There was no turning back now.

“Please don’t do this, Jon. I don’t want you to get hurt,” she’d begged him after Joffrey had stormed off. Even with the purpling bruise on her cheek, she was absolutely gorgeous, cocooned in Jon’s denim jacket. “What if something happens? I can’t lose you.”

Taking care to gingerly cup her face in his hands, he’d smiled and warmly and tenderly pressed a kiss on her forehead.

“You won’t lose me, sweetheart,” he’d promised, thumb brushing over her soft mouth. “I can’t stay away from these lips.”

She’d smiled and blushed, giving him a kiss for good luck. He can still feel that kiss tingling on his mouth. The Camels are a poor substitute for Sansa, but since her lips aren’t available right now, they’ll have to do. Jon grabs his last cancer stick from behind his ear and sparks it to life, hearing laughter in the distance.

They’re late.

Four greasers in dirty Chuck Taylors and leather jackets break out through the tree line. Grenn, Edd, Pyp, and Tormund come grab a seat next to Jon on the edge of the fountain.

“Where the hell are the others?” Grenn asks, lighting his own cig. “They should’ve been here by now.”

Jon shrugs, blowing a puff of smoke through his nose.

“Ok, so we never came to a decision. Are we or are we not taking trophies from the socs?” Edd wonders, snatching the flask Pyp offers him.

“What kind of trophies? See that’s the real question. Ears? Fingers? Cocks?”

Pyp hiccups. “Christ Tormund, you’re a fucking savage.”

“Well, they don’t call me the Wild One for nothing,” Tormund boasts.

“You fucking wish, Brando.”

Their laughter is drowned out by the familiar purr of Theon’s old Plymouth rolling up right next to the fountain, Elvis thumping on the radio.

“Hey what’s shaking, boys?” Satin questions from the passenger window, combing his pompadour in the rearview mirror.

“You’re late, assholes.”

“Stopped for a bite to eat. Didn’t want to fight on an empty stomach. Bad for your health,” Theon jokes, hopping up to sit on the hood of the car. “Besides, I don’t see any socs yet.”

“They’ll be here,” Tormund says, twirling his brass knuckles around one finger. “They’re not gonna miss the opportunity to try to beat us black and blue.”

When he’d told the pack about the rumble, Jon had mentioned very little about him and Sansa. Just what they needed to know. He’d been expecting them to take turns taking the piss out of him, but surprisingly they’d all put up very little fuss. So long as Jon didn’t go all high society on them, they were cool. Turns out the three-month dry spell had left them desperate for blood, so this was a welcome change of pace.

The sound of an engine revving catches their attention. Jon stands, eyes piercing the night. Three sets of headlights shine bright through the black, coming to a stop in the middle of the park, about 50 yards from the fountain. Without a word, Jon casually strolls toward them, his friends following close behind.

The socs pour out of their cars in crisp khakis and letterman sweaters, looking more like they were heading to the country club than to a fight. Jon counts eleven. Joffrey, Trant, Blount, Swann, three Kettleback brothers, Moore, Slynt, Oakheart, and-

“The Mountain?” Edd gulps. “Well, we’re fucked.”

The football team’s star offensive lineman, Gregor Clegane, slowly stomps over to join the rest of the socs. At almost 7 feet tall and nearly 400 pounds, he’s a force to be reckoned with on and off the gridiron. Clegane is not, nor has he ever been, a soc. No doubt he was generously compensated to act as Joffrey’s personal bodyguard. It figures.

“Cool your jets, I can take him,” Tormund promises, eyeing the goon in question.

Pyp scoffs. “Yeah fucking right? Slay the giant by yourself? I’d pay good money to see that.”

Despite the distance between them and the low light, Jon can easily make out the bruises dotting the Joffrey’s throat. He smiles at his own handiwork. It’s definitely an improvement.

“Snow,” Joffrey sneers.

“Baratheon,” Jon returns, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “How’s your neck?”

“Not half as bad as yours is going to feel. Is that all the greasy fucks you could whip up, bastard? Looks to me like you’re outnumbered.”

A few socs smile at their de facto leader’s observation.

“Yep. Looks like it,” Jon agrees, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “Hey, I was just wondering, how much did you pay Clegane to be here tonight? Enough to suck you off when it’s all over?”

Snickers break out on either side of him, but Jon’s stare never wavers from Joffrey’s angry face.

“Son of a bitch! I’ll kill you for that!”

Jon chuckles mirthlessly, crushing his cigarette into the dirt.

“Why don’t you come over here and try.”

A flash of lighting. One raindrop on his nose. Then another in his hair. And another on his arm. Jon cranes his neck up to the heavens just as they shatter and fall, blessing their battlefield with holy water. A clap of thunder.

It begins.

Tormund roars, charging headstrong into the mob as Joffrey ducks behind Clegane like the coward he is. Jon and the rest of the greasers slog through the now muddy field after him. The sudden downpour soaks into his clothes, but he can’t feel the cold. Jon has electricity crackling through his veins and fire in his belly. He is alive.

Fighting has never been something that Jon particularly enjoys, but growing up on the streets it was a necessity. Over time, schoolyard scraps turned into back-alley brawls. He became well-versed in the intricate dance. He’s good at it. He had to be to survive. He hates that about himself, but it was never his choice. He simply adapted to his surroundings. And his surroundings told him he had to fight. Just like he has to fight now.

Janos Slynt is unlucky enough to be the first man to step into Jon’s warpath. The wannabe soc runs up on him like he could end the whole thing with a single punch. He attempts a right hook, but Jon ducks easily, grabbing him around the waist and lifting him over his shoulder only to bring him back down to the earth hard. Much to Jon’s surprise, Slynt scrambles to his feet like nothing had happened. Tired of this fucker, Jon delivers one good punch to his gut and the creep folds like a cheap suit. A well-placed elbow to the back of the head sends his frog face straight back into the muck where he belongs.

Now thoroughly warmed up, Jon sees the entire battlefield at once. It’s an orgy of violence. Tormund and Theon thrash with all three Kettlebacks. Pyp dances circles around Blount. Grenn tangles with Moore and Trant. Satin dodges Oakheart’s chain. Edd wrestles in the mud with Swann. And all the while Clegane stands still as a statue with Joffrey cowering behind him, shouting for his boys to kill the greasers.

Jon turns to make a beeline toward Joffrey, but Trant and the middle Kettleback cut him off. Both carry weapons. Trant a gleaming switchblade. Osfryd, a small club. Jon’s own knife burns a hole in the back pocket of his jeans. It will have to wait though. Only Joffrey will feel the sharp kiss of his steel.

Osfryd takes his sweet time walking in the rain, but Trant is there methodically slashing with his knife. Trying to dodge the blade, the mud makes Jon slip slightly and the razor connects with the side of his face. A little closer and it could have taken out his eye. Despite the cold rain, he can feel a warm trickle of blood running down his cheek. Pissed, Jon grapples with Trant, gripping his wrists tight enough to force the knife from his hands. Relishing the look of fear in his eyes, Jon smashes his skull into Trant’s. Once. Twice. Three times. Sending him into the mud.

But just as Trant falls, Kettleback's club slams into the back of Jon’s head, making him see stars. Wasting no time, another blow crushes into his side. Jon hears his ribs crack. He stumbles, falling to the mud in pain. Osfryd charges in with a wicked smile, teeth sparkling and club swinging wildly. Jon rolls through the muck to dodge the heavy hits.

Kettleback stops and laughs. “You look good in slop, Snow. Just like the dirty pig you are.”

Jon regains his footing, mud sloughing off him, ready to fight. The soc comes in strong, but this time Jon is quick and stops the club in mid-swing, wrenching it from Osfryd's grasp. Jon flips it in his hand and brings it down hard across Kettleback’s face, pearly white teeth cascading into the brown mud. No more smiling for this clown.

With a scream of pain, Osfryd drops to his knees, hands cupping his ruined mouth. Taking no mercy, Jon cracks him upside the head to put him out of commission. With a growl, he turns his wild eyes to Joffrey. Clegane is busy fighting off both Tormund and Grenn, leaving Baratheon alone in the rain. Everyone else is either face down in the mud or otherwise preoccupied.

It’s time for Joffrey to atone for his sins.

Jon roars as lighting streaks across the sky, illuminating the battlefield for a brief moment. Joffrey turns to him then, eyes wide in fear. The socs are losing and he knows it. For every step forward Jon stalks, Joffrey takes two steps back toward the cars. The second he turns his blonde head, Jon breaks out in a full sprint, club still in hand. The coward is not leaving this fight unscathed.

Jon reaches Joffrey at the exact same moment the soc curls his fingers around the door handle of his daddy’s Cadillac. He swings the club down hard, smashing the window out. Joffrey rears back and Jon tackles him to the ground. They wrestle for a time, Joffrey fighting to free himself. The slippery mud makes it difficult, but after a while, Jon manages to gain the upper hand. Straddling Joffrey, he rains down punch after punch, seeing only Sansa’s bruised face and torn sweater in his mind’s eye. Baratheon flails under him, clawing at Jon’s body in an attempt to find any kind of purchase.

After so many blows, Joffrey goes still, his face swollen and his nose flowing blood like a faucet. Jon stops to catch his breath. Baratheon coughs and wheezes, a smile unfurling on his ugly face. His wheezes turn into full-bellied laughs, making Jon think that he’s gone punch-drunk.

The unmistakable flick of a switchblade catches Jon off-guard until he feels a searing pain in his right side.

“I told you I’d kill you, bastard,” Joffrey spits out, teeth red with his own blood. He twists the knife further in, bringing tears to Jon’s eyes. Every single nerve is on fire, the pain almost unbearable. Mustering his strength, Jon wraps his hands around Joffrey’s neck and squeezes until the soc lets go of the weapon to claw at his throat instead.

Biting his tongue, Jon pulls the switchblade out of his side, feeling a fresh gush of blood leak out of him. One look at the offending weapon in his hand and he immediately recognizes it as the one he had been saving to use on Joffrey. Enraged that his own weapon was used against him, Jon stabs the knife down through the shell of Joffrey’s left ear, effectively pinning him into the muddy ground below.

Locking Joffrey’s arms under his legs, Jon whispers through the soc’s cries, “You’re gonna regret that, Baratheon.”

Jon proceeds to savagely maul Joffrey, his fists painting a gruesome picture in red, brown, black, and blue. In his frenzied state, his hands go numb until they’re nothing but stumps of meat and bone slamming into a Joffrey’s once pristine face. It’ll be a miracle if anyone can recognize him after this is all over. He is Jon’s masterpiece. And every masterpiece must have a signature.

Ripping the knife from Joffrey’s ear, Jon carefully slices the buttons off the soc’s soiled white shirt one at a time. With a flourish, he exposes Joffrey’s bare chest to the cold rain.

“This is gonna hurt,” Jon promises before his knife starts digging into soft flesh. Joffrey can only whimper pitifully, blood flowing in thick red rivers into the pool of mud below. Once he’s finished, Jon leans back to admire his work of art. Prominently carved in the middle of Joffrey’s chest is a jagged  _ J+S  _ outlined in a heart.

It is finished.

“Stay the fuck away from my girl,” Jon threatens, rising on aching knees, “or next time I'll kill you.”

He hobbles away from Joffrey, leaving the broken blonde to drown in the rain. Jon’s entire right side throbs from the knife wound. His knuckles are bloody and raw. His body is incredibly tired. But he feels more alive than ever before. The fight is over. The greasers have won.

As Jon heads slowly back toward the fountain he is vaguely aware of the socs picking themselves up and making their exit. He doesn’t look at them. They don’t look at him. Jon’s eyes are only focused on the rest of his pack celebrating their unlikely victory. He joins them as they pass a bottle of Jack around and regale their triumphs and losses.

Leaning up against the Plymouth, Pyp passes the bottle to Jon. He raises it in offering to the others and takes a long pull. The whiskey burns his tongue and warms his belly, momentarily distracting him from all the pain. His thirst satisfied, Jon hands it off to Edd and takes a moment to enjoy the rain. It’s not near as powerful now, having downgraded to a light sprinkle, but it’s still refreshing. Almost cleansing even.

Satin offers him a cigarette, which Jon gratefully accepts. He sticks it between his lips and searches his pockets for his lighter.

“Hey anybody got a light? Must have lost my Zippo in the mud.”

“Here you go boss, you earned it,” Theon says, handing him a match.

Jon lifts his boot up and strikes the match on the edge of the sole, quickly bringing it up to light the tobacco. Shaking out the flame, he welcomes the smoke into his starving lungs. Exhaling, Jon closes his eyes and leans his head back to rest on the wet car. There’s so much he needs to do. Get cleaned up. Tend to his wounds. Sleep for a fucking week. But he can’t do any of that until he sees Sansa. Everything else takes a backseat. She is the only thing that matters.

Light blooms from behind his eyelids. It’s way too early to be the sun. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Jon opens them. Headlights. A car rumbles through the muddy battlefield, skidding to a stop in front of the greasers. Jon steels himself for the possibility of another fight. Who else would be out here at this hour?

A lone figure exits the car, but in the blinding light, he can’t tell who it is. Jon simply takes another drag off the cigarette and waits. The person moves slowly into the light, revealing herself to be a literal angel come to see him.

Sansa.

Jon can only imagine what he must look like to her. A monster, probably. One covered in mud and blood. He drops the cigarette and takes a few steps forward. She does the same, but faster, feet practically dancing on air to jump into his arms. She squeezes his body tightly and it’s simultaneously the most pleasurable and the most painful sensation he’s ever felt.

“Sansa,” he whispers her name like a prayer, “you’re getting dirty.”

She lets out a watery laugh, pulling her head back to look into his eyes. Her own are edged with tears as she studies his face. Gingerly, she traces the outline of the gash by his eye.

“I was so worried. I- I snuck out. I had to see you. Make sure you were alright,” she explains, hugging him again, nuzzling her cheek into his neck. Ignoring the pain, Jon embraces her with his full strength. She is his anchor. The only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I’m alright, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Nothing a needle and thread can’t fix.”

It’s almost definitely a lie, but he doesn’t want to worry her.

“And… Joffrey?”

Jon smiles against her silky hair. “He won’t be a problem anymore.”

“You didn’t…”

Sansa pulls back to look him in the eye. Jon takes her face in his hands - careful to mind the bruise on her cheek - blood and mud soiling her perfect porcelain skin. She’s absolutely gorgeous here in the rain.

“No,” Jon reassures, “Believe me, I wanted to, but no. I just left him a little reminder is all.”

She nods and Jon leans in to capture her lips. He’s hungry again, but not for blood. This hunger can only be satisfied by her love. He opens his mouth against hers and breathes deeply, filling his lungs with everything that is  _ Sansa. _  It’s so much better than any tobacco he’s ever had. She tastes sweet, like honey and lemon cakes and summer. This is it for him. There is no one else. She is a part of him. She is his home.

“I love you,” they both whisper to each other.

Behind them the other greasers clap and whistle, making filthy remarks. Jon smiles at the blush showing through Sansa’s dirty cheeks. He releases her face and holds a hand out for her take.

“Ready to meet the rest of the guys?”

She nods, putting her hand in his. She’s part of the pack now. And the pack sticks together.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay gold, Jonsa fam.


End file.
